


Must I?

by Kaerue



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1917, Father-Son Relationship, Love/Hate, M/M, POV England (Hetalia), Past Violence, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28906938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaerue/pseuds/Kaerue
Summary: England POV. It's 1917 and England knows he needs to swallow his pride and speak to America. But will America even accept his apology?
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Must I?

“You must-” I turn before he can even finish his sentence with full intention to speed walk right out of this humid tent. He grabs my arm, making me turn back toward him. “Arthur, do you understand.” His eyes are powerful, like a dark storm raging over a once calm and peaceful sea. He doesn’t even ask it like the question it should be, but has demanded I understand. Demanded I acknowledge that I’ve heard him.   
“Of course, you are speaking English are you not?” I say, pulling my arm from his grip, “Why must it be me? Can we not send Matthew? He’ll likely listen to him a hell of a lot better than he would me.” France crosses his arms and shifts his weight over to one leg.   
“We need Matthew here. Do you have any idea how many dying boys we pull from the front each day? Canada is a gifted doctor, taking him away from these people because it is inconvenient for you to swallow your pride is. . .” France blinks a few times rapidly, no doubt thinking of all the French words he’d like to say that come with no English translations. The only reason he speaks English this well is to speak with Canada. Sure, Matthew knows French, it was his first language, but I absolutely despise hearing it leave his lips. He knows better than to speak it in my presence. Yet I digress. “. . . I cannot think of a word at the moment but I’m sure you can imagine it wasn’t going to be kind. Now, will you please, please, please, do this. I am not just asking because it would benefit me.”   
I sigh deeply, putting a hand on the back of my neck and feeling the tight muscles that refuse to relax.   
“I know, you are right. I know. . . It’s just been so long since I’ve even. . .” I let out another sigh, turning my attention to the front of the tent. I know this is something I have to do, it is just getting the strength to do it.   
“I can only imagine how hard it is for you.” He says with a sympathetic tone that isn’t mocking for once. He moves to stand behind me and gently places his hands on my shoulders, massaging the pain away. I can’t help but relax into his touch. “And I know that he may not be happy to see you, but I also think this could do both of you some good. Your governments are on friendly terms but you both still dislike one another. Perhaps it is time to reconcile, my dear. Hearing it from you might be what he needs to heal.”   
“I hope you’re right.” I say softly.   
“Me too. For all of our sakes.” He steps away from me and the thought to ask him to keep touching me runs through my mind. I don’t particularly like the thought so I run from it.   
“I’ll leave straight away, yet before I do so I’m going to speak with Canada. I’ll write to you.”   
Again before I can exit the tent he grabs my arm and turns me back around.  
“Godspeed, Arthur.”   
“Thanks.” He lets go of me and I make my escape. 

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

I take a deep breath before walking into the medical unit. Breathing out before taking in the smell of this place always makes it easier for me to manage. Something I’ve never gotten used to no matter how many times I’ve experienced it is the smell of death. It hangs heavy in the air, and I’m practically crestfallen. All doubts about what France said earlier wash away as I take in all these young men who shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be doing this right now. I absolutely must and will swallow my pride. It is the least I can do for these humans who will die and unlike me stay that way.   
“Excuse me, is Dr. Kirkland around?” I stop one of the nurses.   
“He just stepped outside that way.” She says gesturing to the back before walking to the bedside of a man who couldn’t be twenty yet. . . just a boy.   
As I step outside I see Canada sitting down, cigarette in hand. He is wearing a cloth guard over his clothes that is so drenched in blood I doubt it served its purpose.   
“Matthew?” He looks up at me and there are tears in his eyes. My jaw tightens.   
“Arthur.” He answers before taking another drag.   
“I came to see if you were alright.” Silence hangs in the air for a moment before he starts laughing, smoke leaving his lips.   
“Oh just peachy. This one was sixteen,” he says gesturing to the blood, “hadn’t even finished school yet; asked me if he was going to be fine. I told him everything was going to be okay as I watched him bleed out on the table. . . I know this happens, it has happened before it’ll happen again, I just. . . this one got to me. I’ll be okay, I just need a moment.” The waver in his voice makes my chest tighten. He shouldn’t be here either. I bet some of the men who come in question why their doctor looks like he could be sixteen himself. I know that his looks are deceiving, he’s been alive for over two hundred years now, but still. . . he shouldn’t be here. He should be in Canada, not seeing these things that upset him so much he is reduced to this.   
“I didn’t know you took up smoking.”   
“Only recently,” he takes another drag, “it helps a little.”   
Once more silence hangs between us. There is so much I want to say to him. That I’m proud, so terribly proud to call him a son. That just looking at him fills my chest with so much pride and joy. That if he was the only legacy I left on this Earth I’d be satisfied. But none of that comes out.   
“I’m going to America.”   
“Is that so? We’re doing that bad?” I nod and he looks down. “Please speak softly to him, I know he irritates you but if you raise your voice he won’t listen to you. . . I have half a mind to suggest you get down before him and praise his glory.”   
“I’d laugh if I thought you were joking.” He smiles a bit and so do I. Lord knows America has gotten rather full of himself over the years. I’m sure groveling before him would stroke his ego just right enough to be compelled to help us. I pray that it is. “If you need anything while I am gone you can always ask France, he’ll make sure you're taken care of.”   
“I know.”   
“. . . Good. . . I’ll see you in a few weeks.”   
“Travel safely.” 

[][][][][][][][][][][][][]

The car comes to a slow stop before a large, classic house. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at how perfect it looks, pristine white paint, large Roman style columns, sharp pediments, graceful porticoes, elaborate cornices. . . I’m in Virginia alright.   
“I ain’t never driven anyone to this one ‘for.” The driver comments.   
“I couldn’t imagine why you would have.” I hand him the fare and step out of the taxicab, straightening out my suit while looking at the impressive plantation house. I hear the human pull away as I walk up the path to the steps of the large front porch. My heart beats wildly in my chest as I take the steps up the porch and stand before the front door. I scold myself for feeling so strongly about this, I’m the damn British Empire and I refuse to quiver before a runaway colony. I’ve faced more menacing foes than the person I used to call my son. The door opens and I’m met with the youthful face of a beautiful woman.   
“I apologize,” she begins with a heavy southern accent, “but Mr. Jones ain’t taken visitors today.”   
“I think he may make an exception for me. Tell him Arthur Kirkland wishes to speak with him.”   
“Well I would if he were here. . . Hang tight real quick, I’ll be right back.” She says before closing the door and leaving me to stand outside. I sigh and take off my hat. If I came all the way out to America just to find out he is off galavanting somewhere I will be immeasurably pissed. . . At least the weather is nice. Warmer than eastern France that’s for sure. A lot less death.   
The sound of children’s laughter makes me turn around.   
“Hello?” I ask out, but receive no answer. I cautiously look about the front porch, trying to find some giggling child in hiding, but again find nothing. I frown to myself at the possibility of my hallucinations coming back. Now would be a horrible time to start confusing reality.   
“Arthur! Look what I found!”   
A shuddering breath leaves me as I look down and see a small blonde haired child before me. I can recognize those deep blue eyes with a green center anywhere.   
“A-America?”   
“What? Should I not be holding him?” He says, pulling the small rabbit to his chest. I kneel down to be level with him.   
“No, um, it’s okay. . . He’s cute.”   
“He is, I’ve named him Wilbur.” I smile at him as he looks at me with those big eyes, filled with so much curiosity and adventure. “Can I put him in the barn?”   
“Wilbur may have a family out in the forest, sweetheart.”   
“Oh. . . yeah, he might.” America bends down slightly and allows the rabbit to hop back to the ground. It turns around, looks at him for a moment, then begins to hop away. “Bye Wilbur! Say hi to your family for me!” My eyes begin to burn as tears threaten them. I miss this child so much.   
“Mr. Kirkland. . . Mr. Kirkland?”   
“Hm? Oh, yes.” I stand up and try to cast off my embarrassment as the maid from before gives me a weird look.   
“Mr. Jones grew rather upset when I mentioned your name to him, I think it would be best if you left.” She moves to close the door but I step forward and stop her from doing so. The look she gives me is mixed with surprise and fear, but I’ve come too far for America to just refuse seeing me.   
“Tell him I would not be here if it wasn’t dire. He should know that, and be man enough to greet me himself.” I say perhaps a tad to aggressively.   
“A-Alright. . . Um, wait here I’ll-”  
“I know you’re just doing your job, but I would rather wait inside so he is forced to deal with me in some way.”   
She hesitates for a moment but ultimately allows for me to step inside. I watch her scurry down the hall, perhaps to tell America that I refused to leave. My nerves begin to slowly return to me as I look around the house, noticing the immaculate marble flooring, the large wooden double staircase that rounds to the upper floor and the fresh smell of pine and molasses. I remember France suggesting I should use mahogany while I was stuck on oak. Obviously we used mahogany for the staircase. It has been a very long time since I’ve stepped foot in this house.  
“Come on, give it back.” I look to the staircase on the right and see a very young Canada, annoyed look on his face.   
“You have to take it from me first!” America teases.   
“Alfred, please, this is embarrassing.”   
“Oh, what does this say?”   
“No! Stop reading that, it isn’t for you!”   
“Hey, what is going on here?” A startled breath leaves me as I see myself at the top of the stairs, looking down at the two of them.   
“Alfred stole my journal and insists on reading it.”   
“Alfred, give Matthew his journal back.”   
“Ugh, fine.” America gives the book back to Canada.   
“You both should do something that befits the young men you are, rather than engaging in these child like endeavors. How about we take a trip to the town and see what we can find there.”   
Both of their faces light up and I smile.   
“Mr. Kirkland, are you alright?” The maid asks me.   
“Y-yes, um, my apologies, the trip from England is a long one.”   
“Of course. . . Well, Mr. Jones ain’t pleased but said he will meet with you. You are lucky, he just returned from his trip to Arizona not that long ago.”   
“Thank you.”   
She nods before leading me down the hallway toward the office. My nerves return to me full force as she opens the door for me and my eyes land on America. I step into the room, lit only by the fireplace and a candle on the desk. It still has that old library smell to it. The books on the back wall add such a charm to this room, not to mention the beautiful globe made of different precious and semi-precious stones I got from India. America is sitting at the desk and before him is a shotgun, broken down to its primary parts.   
“You sure are persistent.” He says, eyes not leaving the gun before him once. His voice is a bit deeper than the last time I heard it, smothered in that southern drawl I’ve been hearing all day. His hair is a bit longer, a bit darker, his features more defined. He looks older.   
“I have to be.” I answer simply. My gaze falls to his hands as I watch him clean the barrel of the gun.   
“Let me guess, you’re gonna start givin’ me some sob story about dyin’ boys at the front?” Well, I was, but now no. And I’m at a loss on what to say.   
“No. I’m sure you know enough about all of that. I asked you, France asked you, your answer has been no both times and we respect that. . . I came all this way to apologize. If I sent a letter you would have probably thrown it in the fire, so in-person was the only way you would hear the words I had.” I pause for a moment to try and gauge his reaction, but I find nothing. He turns the barrel over, gingerly cleaning it without ever looking up at me. For a moment it makes my blood boil, but then I remember Canada’s words and try my best to remain calm. The sound of the fire cracking gives the air character, the light flickering over him and the room animate the space. This would be an otherwise comforting setting if there wasn’t so much tension between us.   
“I should have known when I was beat. I shouldn’t have made you fight to prove yourself again, and I’m deeply sorry for making you feel like you were going to lose your independence so soon after gaining it. I’m sorry for threatening it. I thought maybe I could have what I missed so dearly again. It was delusional, I see that now.” Another pause to gauge his reaction is met with seeming indifference. I watch him lubricate the gun, kind of impressed by his knowledge around the thing. He begins putting it together again and I take that as a good spot to continue speaking.   
“I’m also sorry for how long it has taken me to try and mend our relationship. . . I have a lot of pride that is hard for me to swallow and. . . It was easier to just wallow in self-pity or throw all my attention into projects rather than fix this.” I clear my throat to avoid a waver in my voice. This is particularly sensitive, and I mean all of it. Truly. I’m not just saying this to get him to join the war, I am genuinely apologizing to him for my past behavior and I hope he can see that. He cocks the shotgun and I can’t help but jump.   
“It's all a part of the game, ain’t it?,” he begins, voice soft, “we’re in a silent power struggle and that war was only the beginning of it.”   
My heart shatters. Out of all the responses that is what he says to me?   
“If that’s how it must be.”   
“It is. . . But, even with that said, I appreciate your apology and I accept it.” My eyebrows raise in surprise and he finally looks up at me. Those eyes are just as beautiful as I remember. “Congress doesn’t like the idea of going to war, and neither do I. It’s hard to justify the death of sons in a war that the people do not understand. But, President Wilson is on your side so I would expect my declaration soon.” I nod, absolutely speechless. “You are free to stay here for as long as you like.”   
“Thank you, Alfred.”   
He gives me that charming half smile of his and I melt. I will kiss France the next time I see him, thank you, you silly frog, for telling me to do this. 

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][] 

That smile on Canada’s face pulls on my heart as America and him embrace.   
“It’s so good to see you.” America says.   
“I’m glad to see you as well. Finally, someone my age, you have no idea how boring these old people are.” Canada jokes as they pull away.   
“Hey! I am not old,” France says while tossing his hair, “but I do agree with you, England is boring.” I roll my eyes playfully as he flashes me a smile.   
“Anyway, I’m sure all this travelling has made you tired. I’ll show you where we are sleeping.” Canada says to America before they both walk out of the tent. I find myself quite fatigued as well and sit down in one of the chairs near the table.   
“Thank you, Arthur. I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. We’ll win this thing.”   
“It seems likely. . . Thank you for suggesting I apologize, it worked just as well as you said it would.”   
“I know. America talks to me quite a lot via letters.”   
“I didn’t know your relationship with him was that good.”   
“Of course it is. We’ve basically been on good terms since. . . well, 1776.”   
“Hmm.” I hum, preferring not to recall that year. France stands behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders, working at my tired muscles again. I couldn’t be more thankful.   
“They turned out well, didn’t they.” He says.   
“Indeed. I’m proud.” He softly pats my shoulders before attempting to make his leave, however it’s my turn to stand and grab his arm. He gives me a confused look as I gently place my hand on his cheek. He opens his mouth, probably to say something, but I take the opportunity to kiss him. It doesn't last long, not because I don’t want it but precisely the opposite. The history between us is too complicated to indulge in feelings of passion and love. I do not want to find out how I feel quite yet.   
“Thank you.” I say softly. The storm in his eyes seems to have calmed, and I try not to read too much into that.   
“Of course, Arthur.”


End file.
